Robots Go Wild! Page 3

When we get to our classroom and Blitzen, motor humming, parks next to my desk, Mrs. Kunkel asks the question I really should’ve figured out an answer for by now.

  “Sammy? Why did you bring one of your mother’s other robots to school today?”

  “That thing’s electrical motor is creating electromagnetic static for SS-10K,” complains Eddie Ingalls. “My poor, sick brother, Freddy, can’t see the board clearly with all the interference.” He touches a high-tech Bluetooth device he has jammed into his right ear. “Now you’ve done it, Sammy Hayes-Rodriguez. You and your stupid lawn-mowing linebacker have made Freddy cry. In my ear.”

  “Samuel?” says Mrs. Kunkel.

  Uh-oh. When anybody uses my full name like that, I know I’m in trouble.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I think it might be best if your robot waited out in the hall. We can discuss this further at recess.”

  “Okay.” I look down at Blitzen. He has voice-recognition software, so I can just tell him what to do. “Hit the hall. On three. Hut-hut-hut.”

  “Break!” Blitzen shouts, twirls around, and rolls toward the door.

  Which he bumps into.

  Repeatedly.

  In that Fighting iBot football game, Blitzen was mostly a tackler. He just sort of plowed into stuff. He didn’t really need hands to catch or throw a ball. Or to open doors.

  I leap out of my seat, run to the door, and open it.

  “Wait out here,” I say.

  “You got it, Coach.”

  And I’m sure Blitzen would’ve done what I told him to do.

  Except the linoleum in the hallways of Creekside Elementary is a sparkling emerald green.

  The color of grass. On a football field.

  And since it stretches out in a straight line for maybe fifty yards, I guess it sort of looks like a football field, too, a very skinny one.

  So Blitzen’s task-recognition software naturally alerts him that it’s time to mow the tile and score a touchdown.

  I guess it’s a good thing SS-10K is in Mrs. Kunkel’s classroom.

  When we all hear the commotion out in the corridor, Dr. Ingalls’s robot immediately stands up and asks the teacher for a hall pass.

  “I do not wish to alarm you or your students,” he says in a deep, steady voice. “But I sense mayhem and mischief nearby. Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Must have hall pass!”

  I’ve never seen Mrs. Kunkel scribble faster.

  Hall pass in hand, SS-10K races out the door, tackles Blitzen, and yanks out his batteries.

  “Mission accomplished,” he reports as he comes back into the room, clutching a dangling Blitzen by his power cables.

  “Thank you, SS-10K,” says Mrs. Kunkel. Then she starts scribbling on her yellow hall-pass pad again. When she fills in all the blanks, she rips it out and hands it to me.

  So I could go to the principal’s office.

  With my broken bot, Blitzen.

  Blitzen and I have to wait on the “uh-oh” chair outside Mrs. Reyes’s office.

  Everybody calls it the “uh-oh” chair because if you’re sitting on it, you probably, uh-oh, did something seriously wrong.

  Mom shows up and, basically, doesn’t say anything. She just shakes her head, clucks her tongue, and says, “Samuel, Samuel, Samuel.”

  Yep. I’m in trouble. Big-time.

  When we’re called into Mrs. Reyes’s office to hear my punishment, the grown-ups decide that it might be best “for everybody” if I went home and spent the day thinking about the consequences of my actions.

  “Somebody could’ve been hurt, Sammy,” says Mrs. Reyes. “At Creekside Elementary, we like to keep our lawn mowers outside. On the lawn.”

  The ride home is kind of quiet.

  Until Mom sighs and says, “Do you need a babysitter-bot, Sammy? Because if you do, I could build you one.”

  “No. I don’t need a babysitter. Robotic or human.”

  “So what’s going on here?”

  “Nothing.”

  Yep. I give her the classic kid answer (because it’s all I can come up with on such short notice).

  “Are you jealous that E is going to school for Maddie now?”

  “No,” I say. “I think that’s great. I think what you did for Maddie is amazing.”

  That makes her smile some—a nearly impossible feat, by the way, thirty minutes after you’ve been sent home by the principal for wreaking havoc in the hallways with an out-of-control piece of robotic gardening equipment.

  So I keep going, piling on the compliments.

  “What you did is absolutely phenomenal. After all these years, Maddie can finally go to a real school without, you know, really going to school.”

  “Well, if you change your mind about the babysitter, I could always reconfigure that antique nanny-bot who used to change your diapers.…”

  “Mom, for the last time, I don’t need a babysitter.”

  I think a little longer.

  “But a bodyguard-bot might be nice.”

  Mom punctures my thought balloon fast.

  “Sammy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Yeah. Didn’t think so.”

  But, hey, a kid can dream, can’t he?

  The next morning, I start thinking that maybe Mom is the one who needs a bodyguard, to protect her from Professor Ignatius “Iggy” Ingalls over at IRAT, which, come to think of it, sounds like a rodent version of iTunes.

  Dad, who is still bummed out about losing his book contract (his hair is sticking straight up, electrocution-style, from all the tugging he’s been doing on it lately), is dressed in pajamas and slurping down a bowl of cereal while watching the morning news.

  Dr. Ingalls is being interviewed. SS-10K, arms folded across his chest, is sitting right beside him. The hulking robot’s helmet visor is glowing red, like he’s mad about something.

  Dr. Ingalls doesn’t look very happy, either.

  “I’m with Professor ‘Iggy’ Ingalls,” chirps the cheery morning-show reporter, “from Indiana Robotics and Automaton Tech. So, who’s this big, handsome guy you brought with you?”

  “That,” says Dr. Ingalls, “is the Substitute Student Ten Thousand. I designed, engineered, and built him to go to school for my unfortunate son, Freddy, who was in a terrible, horrible, tragic accident.”

  “Say, is your SS-10K anything like that robot E from Notre Dame? The one who, as our viewers saw just last week, is going to school for the inventor’s homebound daughter?”

  Dr. Ingalls gives the reporter a polite titter. “Hardly. I, of course, applaud Dr. Elizabeth Hayes and her colleagues at the University of Notre Dame for their early, pioneering efforts in the field of substitute student robotics. Her work, although primitive and somewhat childish, paved the way for technological leaps such as SS-10K.”

  “Did he just call Mom primitive?” I ask.

  Dad nods. “And somewhat childish.”

  “I don’t like Professor Ingalls.”

  Mom steps into the breakfast nook. “Join the club,” she says, sipping coffee that isn’t steaming as much as she is. “Now you know why, back in high school, we all called him Icky.”

  “Nothing personal,” says Professor Ingalls (which means he’s probably about to say something very nasty), “but Dr. Hayes’s robots are nothing more than gadgets, gewgaws, and gizmos. Toys you play with on Christmas morning and toss out by New Year’s Day. They might also be dangerous. Apparently, there was an unfortunate incident yesterday at the school involving one of Dr. Hayes’s rampaging robots. Luckily, my SS-10K was able to quickly restore order.”

  Oops.

  I didn’t realize that somebody Instagrammed that.

  “On the other hand,” Dr. Ingalls continues, “SS-10K is a safe, sophisticated, and self-sufficient servant for all of humanity!”

  “Yes,” says the robot. “I am here to serve humans.”

  Yikes.

  When SS-10K says it, he sounds like McDonald’s
talking about serving hamburgers.

  Things are pretty grim around the robot house.

  Dad says he may “never draw again.”

  And Mom—along with everything she’s been working on since before I was born—has been totally burned on TV because of me.

  As we’re biking with Trip to school, E can see that I’m feeling kind of blue.

  “Why so glum, chum?” he chirps.

  “Dad’s not doing so well. They canceled his graphic novel series.”

  “Everybody’s reading that new comic book,” says Trip. “The one about the two samurai guys. Itchy and Scratchy.”

  I correct him. “Sweet and Spicy.”

  “Not to worry,” says E. “Mr. Noah Rodriguez is an extremely talented artist. He will generate a new creative idea. Soon. You’ll see. Something even better.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I ask.

  “Because I find positive energy to be much more useful than the negative variety.”

  The three of us bike down the road.

  “Well, what about that new guy, Dr. Ingalls from IRAT?” I ask. “He was making fun of Mom on TV. Said her robots are nothing but gewgaws, gizmos, and gadgets.”

  “That means you’re like an electric can opener or something,” adds Trip.

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me. Unless, of course, the stones being hurled also have names. For instance, the gemstones malachite, melanite, moldavite…”

  “Are you and Maddie studying geology in Ms. Tracey’s class?” I ask.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  I shrug. “Lucky guess.”

  We park our bikes and hurry into school.

  Penelope Pettigrew is waiting for us. Actually, she’s kind of blocking the whole hallway.

  “Kindly step aside and let us pass, Miss Pettigrew,” says E, still trying to stay positive.

  I’m not as good at that as he is. “Move out of the way, Penelope. And quit saying mean junk about my sister.”

  “Yeah.” That’s Trip. “What Sammy and E said.”

  But Penelope doesn’t budge. “You know, Maddie, you really need to do something about your smile. Maybe you could find a dentist to fill that gap between your teeth. You could lose a chipmunk in that thing.”

  “Actually,” says E, extremely calmly, “I am not currently being operated by Maddie, who, trust me, has the sweetest smile in the world. It could, as they say, light up a room. I apologize, however, if you find my own dental hardware in any way offensive.”

  I hear a ZHUSH-WHIRR-ZHUSH behind us.

  In marches Eddie Ingalls and SS-10K. The heroic bot bumps into E’s back like one of those Roomba vacuum cleaners that scoot around the carpet until they smack into a wall.

  E turns around and looks up at the hulking robot.

  “Who are you?” drones SS-10K. “Please identify yourself.”

  “I am E. Short for Egghead.”

  “Yeah,” says Penelope. “Because you smell like a rotten egg.”

  “Actually,” I say, “my mom calls E Egghead because he’s superintelligent.”

  “Well, if he’s so smart,” says snarky Penelope, “what’s he doing hanging out with you?”

  “Ooh,” says Eddie Ingalls. “Score.”

  He does that stupid thing where he licks his finger and pretends to mark a 1 with it on some kind of invisible scoreboard.

  I hate when people do that.

  “I understand that you and I share similar primary functions,” E says very politely. I guess this is how robots make small talk with each other.

  “Affirmative,” says SS-10K. “And, currently, you are prohibiting me from fulfilling my mission. Kindly step to one side.”

  SS-10K puts a hand on E’s shoulder like he might shove E out of the way.

  “Move it,” says Eddie. “Our robot needs to go to school for my brother, Teddy.”

  E nods and moonwalks out of the way.

  “Wait a second,” I say. “I thought your twin brother’s name was Freddy, not Teddy.”

  “Freddy is what everybody calls him. But, uh, his full name is Theodore Frederick Ingalls. Or Teddy Freddy.” He turns to Penelope. “You need to move out of our way, too. Now.”

  “Sure thing.” She skips down the hall, giggling.

  “See you in class, Sammy,” says Eddie as he and SS-10K proceed down the hall. “You, too, what’s-your-name.”

  “I’m Trip. Well, that’s what Sammy calls me. My real name is…”

  Eddie and his robot aren’t listening. They keep forging ahead.

  “I’ll tell you later,” says Trip.

  Even though SS-10K isn’t exactly friendly to E, my bro-bot stays sunny-side up.

  “And might I congratulate you, SS-10K, for executing your mission so well here at Creekside Elementary School?”

  SS-10K doesn’t look back. He just says, “We are here to serve humans.”

  With a side of fries, I want to say, because, once again, I’m thinking about McDonald’s.

  Then the new robot says, “Study hard, Eggbert.”

  And E doesn’t correct him.

  I guess that should’ve been my first hint that something was wrong.

  Really, really wrong.

  About an hour later, a voice comes over the intercom in Mrs. Kunkel’s room.

  “Guess they’re sending you back where you belong,” cracks Jacob Gorski, my geeky new bully. “Third grade!”

  Of course he says it so softly that Mrs. Kunkel, who’s busy at the Smart Board, can’t hear him.

  “You’d better go, Sammy,” says Mrs. Kunkel. “Maddie must need something.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I hurry down the hall.

  When I step into Ms. Tracey’s room, it’s bedlam.

  “Make him stop doing that!” screeches Penelope Pettigrew.

  E is up at the front of the classroom, dancing some kind of crazy jig.

  Ms. Tracey has her arms spread out like a soccer goalie, protecting the little kids in their seats from the big, jangling robot who’s flapping his arms and legs like a marionette with its strings tangled up in a ceiling fan.

  Maddie’s voice peeps out of E’s mouth. “Something’s wrong, Sammy. E isn’t doing what I tell him to do.”

  “He’s demented!” shouts Penelope.

  “Demented,” says E. “D-E, M-E, that’s me. N-T, E-D, E-I-E-I-O!”

  Penelope is defending herself by flinging paper clips at E. She has, like, a whole pencil bag full of the things. “He’s dangerous! Make him stop!” Her paper clips bonk off E’s metal head and bounce to the floor.

  “We were taking our spelling test,” says Ms. Tracey over her shoulder. “Then E started dancing.”

  “My word was samba, Sammy,” says E, shaking his clamper-claws and making SHIKKA-SHIKKA maraca sounds.

  “Maddie?” I cry out.

  “Yes, Sammy?”

  “Switch E to internal control mode.”

  E’s blazing blue LED eyeballs flicker a little. That means Maddie just passed off control to the bot.

  “E?” I say, moving slowly up an aisle between desks. “It’s me. Sammy.”

  “My brother? Samuel Hayes-Rodriguez? R-O-D-R…”

  “Yes, E. It’s me. You need to settle down.”

  E’s limbs go all loose, and he collapses to the floor. “I have settled down.”

  “Good. You have to obey Ms. Tracey’s rules, too.”

  “I have memorized Ms. Tracey’s rules for punctuation. A statement is followed by a period. A period of rain is good for a garden. A garden is good for growing gophers.”

  I can’t believe it. E is having a major microchip meltdown. He keeps rattling off all sorts of random third-grade gobbledygook.

  “Make him stop!” cries Penelope Pettigrew. “Please, MAKE HIM STOP!” Then she puts her arm to her forehead and swoons backward in her seat. She’s kind of dramatic that way.

  “Sammy?” says Ms. Tracey. “You need to pull E’
s plug.”

  She’s right. I have no choice.

  “Sorry, bro,” I say as I reach around E’s back and flip his emergency shutdown switch.

  There’s a quick WHIRR-CLICK and a SNIZZLE-FLICK. E’s head droops. His chin clunks into his chest. The light is gone from his eyes.

  When he’s nothing but a limp heap of aluminum, the school janitor helps me haul E down to the principal’s office.

  I get to sit on the “uh-oh” chair (again) while we wait for Mom to come pick us up (again).

  The school secretary clucks her tongue at us.

  “What a shame,” she says. “Too bad E can’t be more like SS-10K. What a nice boy that robot is. Such a gentleman.”

  “Yes, ma’am” is all I can say.

  But I tap the silent E on his knee because I don’t really mean it.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with E,” says Mom after we haul him home to her workshop.

  I’ve never seen her so down in the dumps.

  First Dr. Ingalls insults her on TV. Then E goes bananas at school. What’s next? The Breakfastinator starts making lunch?

  “I must be losing my touch,” Mom says with a very heavy sigh.

  “No, you’re not,” I say, hoping to buck her up with my positive energy, the kind E always tries to use. “It’s probably something ridiculously simple. You’ll figure it out.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not so sure, Sammy. Maybe this whole ‘substitute student’ project wasn’t a wise use of my time or the engineering school’s resources.”

  “What? Sending Maddie, and kids just like her, to school—real school—when they can’t go themselves? That wasn’t a good thing for you guys to try to do? What could Notre Dame be working on that’s more important than that? A robotic toaster that can handle bagels without them ever getting stuck?”

  “That’s a pretty good idea.…”

  “Mom? I was kidding.”

  “I know. Run to the kitchen. Fix yourself a sandwich or a bowl of soup.” She rolls up her sleeves. Grabs a tiny screwdriver from her toolbox. “I won’t be cooking dinner tonight.”